


quench

by hoko_onchi



Series: the Quames agenda [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: And Quentin thirsting over wet men, Blow Jobs, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Eliot's dick really just makes an appearance but it's spectacular, M/M, Pre-timeline shenanigans, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Quentin's Gay Thirst, The main action is Quames, wet t-shirt contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: Quentin stares at the flier. “Uh, James. This place is called Cocktales. It’s a gay club—”“Well, yeah,” James says, not without a note of defensiveness in his voice. Which—James came out like—last week. And only to Quentin, as far as Quentin knows. And Quentin had sort of—led him there. Like, he’d had to tell James he wasn’t straight while they were in the shower together.“You want to go to a gay club and enter a wet t-shirt contest—”“You can enter it, too. I could loan you a t-shirt. I mean.” James pauses. “Maybe you could wear one of Julia’s shirts. She’s got like—some oversized shirts, right?”“What the fuck? Why am I wearing Julia’s shirt in this scenario? Why am I not wearing my very own fucking t-shirt that I have on right now?”“Your t-shirt is black. All of your t-shirts are black. Or very, very dark gray.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/James
Series: the Quames agenda [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019676
Comments: 21
Kudos: 78
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	quench

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/gifts).



> This fic is lovingly dedicated to Mizzy, one of my very first fandom friends, a true Queliot believer, co-founder of Peaches and Plums, supporter of many of my 2020 breakdowns, extraordinary writer, Quames Agenda supporter (no Jamtin!). I have no spotted dick to give you, so here is my offering. 
> 
> Thank you to Rubick, as always, for the love and support and beta work. Thanks to FreneticFloetry for the astonishingly excellent bar name, Cocktales, and full support of the Quamesliot threesome that is to come (2021 goal!). Thank you to AmbiguousPenny, TheAudity, and RedBlazer for the cheer reading and cheerleading on this one.

“Julia isn’t coming home tonight.” James steps right in front of Quentin, and he’s—wearing an _extremely_ tight shirt. Quentin’s eyes linger on the material where it clings to his chest. His nipples are—hard. Which is really more a sign that their air conditioning is working than it is anything else—anything _amorous_. But ‘Julia isn’t coming home tonight’ usually translates to ‘let’s fuck.’

“So, uh.” Quentin can’t stop staring at his pecs, the firm, round shape of them, the hard points of his nipples. Quentin’s eyes scan down, and he realizes—James is wearing a pair of shorts that are—like, scandalously short. Like a third the size of all of his other shorts. Quentin is now staring at his thighs. He toys with the idea of asking James to sit on his face later; he has no idea how that would even work, but his dick is interested in finding out. “Do you wanna—uh—my room?” 

“No. I mean—yeah, kind of always.” James laughs like it should be obvious that he always wants to fuck Quentin ‘kind of always.’ This has been his life for like—two weeks now? And he has no fucking clue how it could be real. Whenever James is in his bed, driving into him, wild and relentless, Quentin has to check in with himself to see if this is actually fucking happening. Because it can’t be, can it? James can’t just—walk around being James and want to fuck Quentin. And yet.

“Then. Um. What? Are we doing. I’m confused.” His brow furrows; he feels like one big furrow. 

“I thought we could go out to a bar. There’s this place—” James fishes a flier out of his tiny pocket and shoves it at Quentin. “—and they’ve got a wet t-shirt contest. They pay the winner, like, fifty bucks.”

Quentin stares at the flier. “Uh, James. This place is called Cocktales. It’s a gay club—”

“Well, yeah,” James says, not without a note of defensiveness in his voice. Which—James came out like—last week. And only to Quentin, as far as Quentin knows. And Quentin had sort of—led him there. Like, he’d had to tell James he wasn’t straight while they were in the shower together.

“You want to go to a gay club and enter a wet t-shirt contest—”

“You can enter it, too. I could loan you a t-shirt. I mean.” James pauses. “Maybe you could wear one of Julia’s shirts. She’s got like—some oversized shirts, right?”

“What the fuck? Why am I wearing Julia’s shirt in this scenario? Why am I not wearing my very own fucking t-shirt that I have on right now?”

“Your t-shirt is black. All of your t-shirts are black. Or very, very dark gray.”

“I have a navy blue shirt.” 

James sighs. “You need a white t-shirt.”

“Then you can give me one. Like you said.”

“Are you saying you’ll _go_?”

“God. Um.” Quentin tucks his hair back behind one ear. His gaze lands on the crotch of James’ shorts, and he focuses the outline of that gorgeous, thick cock, imagining the weight of it on his tongue. He’s daydreamed about going somewhere—anywhere, really—with James. Out to dinner or to the park or—they used to go to a comic book store in Brooklyn when they were teenagers, and he thinks about that, too. Whatever this thing is between them—it’s not going to last. Quentin can and _will_ fuck it up, or James will get wise to the fact that Quentin is a sad sack not worth his time. So Quentin should— _gather ye rosebuds_ or whatever. Live his life while there’s a hot guy who, for whatever reason, wants to fuck him. And be seen in public with him. Well, fuck it. “I mean. Sure. I’m not entering any contests, though. And I need to start drinking _now_. If this thing is at ten.”

“We should see if we can find one of Julia’s shirts—”

“ _No_. I’ll wear one of your shirts if we need to wear white to get in. That’s what I was implying. So. Do you have a shirt?”

“Q. My shirt will drown you. It won’t be cute. And you’re cute. You should look cute. I’m sure Julia—”

Quentin is _bright_ red now; he’s sure of it. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, the searing almost-pain in the tips of his ears. “Uh. I think I have a pack of Fruit of the Loom t-shirts my mom got me for Christmas. I think.”

James stares at him in awkward silence while Quentin tries not to stare at his pecs or—where James’ shirt clings to his abs. After a beat, he sits down next to Quentin and puts his arm around him. “Man.”

“What? I’ll—dig them out of my closet.”

“No, Q. I was gonna say—man, I’m just so fucking sorry your mom is such a dick.”

“Oh, I—” Whatever thought Quentin had in his head is interrupted by James and the solid-warm press of his lips against Quentin’s mouth.

~~***~~

“I feel stupid,” Quentin says. The line is at least twenty people deep, and Quentin feels exposed, even though it’s at least eighty degrees, and his Fruit of the Loom shirt is at least half a size too big for him. And his shorts are—longer than James’ shorts. Well, technically they’re the _same_ shorts. James got a two pack from eBay. Apparently, he’d been thinking about forcing Quentin to wear these shorts for a _while_. 

Well, really. He hadn’t so much forced Quentin as he’d bullied him into the shower and fingered him until he came, promising him _more_ later if he’d just put on the fucking shorts. 

They feel coupled up. They feel like a _couple_. It’s weird. He’s sure people are staring because James is at least a nine on anyone’s scale, and Quentin is—well, he’s Quentin. 

James looks at him like he’s reading his mind. “I know you have some bizarre notion that you’re unattractive—” He puts his hand to the small of Quentin’s back and pushes him forward in the line. Quentin stumbles a bit, but James catches him, hand around his waist, his mouth next to Quentin’s ear. “—but you’re hot as fuck. Guys keep checking you out—”

“Bullshit,” Quentin hisses. A little swoop hits his stomach, and he looks up at James, a bit unsteady and—his blue eyes are focused on Quentin. He dips down to give Quentin a quick kiss on the cheek. And—yeah, this is weird, but it’s _nice_ all the same. 

“I’m gonna get you drunk and make you enter that contest,” James whispers, “so I can see that shirt clinging to you.”

Quentin’s head is swimming—maybe from the box wine they’d choked down before leaving the apartment, maybe from the sharp attention of James, all focused on him—and a little pleased buzz settles in his bones. “You will not,” Quentin says, but there’s no heat there. 

“Watch me,” James says. He hands the bouncer his ID and nudges Quentin to do the same, and they’re ushered into the strobe lights and sweaty bodies, an electronic remix of “It’s Raining Men” blasting through hidden speakers.

Quentin feels both—incredibly out of place and incredibly—turned on. Like—incredibly justified in deciding, at fourteen, that bisexual was just—what he was. Like, what a fucking good job he’d done, figuring that out. And now he’s in a sea of beautiful men who are about to get sprayed down—with hoses? He has no idea how this works. Maybe it’s like the seltzer spray in “Coyote Ugly.” And he’s _with_ his teenage crush. _One of_ his teenage crushes, anyway. 

“You okay, man?” James slips his arm around Quentin’s waist and presses a soft kiss to Quentin’s temple. 

“Oh, uh. Me? I’m fine.” Quentin’s pulse pounds as he looks out at the sea of bodies, a few people already lining up at the stage in the center of the club, which is all lit up with purple light. There are already, like, fifteen guys lining up on stage for the contest. He looks up at James and gives him a little smile. “I’ll be watching you, so it’ll be fun.”

A grin spreads over James’ face, and he leans in and kisses Quentin, slow and almost hesitant. They’ve never _done_ this anywhere but the lake house or the apartment. James moans softly against Quentin’s lips and tugs him in, one hand slipping down to Quentin’s ass. “You look—” He laughs into Quentin’s hair. “—so cute in these stupid fucking shorts.”

“God.” Quentin buries his face against James’ shirt. There’s the faint tang of good, clean sweat, the masculine, essentially-James scent that drives Quentin fucking insane. He wants to tell James he likes him as much as he wants him. But—that’ll set him up for disappointment. He can let it be tonight and—not stress about it. He pulls back and clears his throat. “I think you oughta go up there if you want to enter. Because if you enter, you’ll definitely win.” 

“Ah, yeah. I should—” He dips down and kisses Quentin again, hard this time, nipping at his lower lip. A rush of arousal crashes through him, leaving him weak in the knees when James pulls away. “—I should go up there. Hm? You get us some drinks. Bring one up for me. I’ll get you back later.” 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Quentin feels out-of-sorts still as he watches James stroll up to the stage, his insanely short shorts showing off his thick thighs, furred with blond hair. His ass is so perfect—Quentin _has_ to fuck him again. It would be absolutely _unfair_ if he doesn’t get to before this is all over. He sighs and shoves his way up to the bar trying to wave at the bartender, who’s flirting with some guy.

“Excuse me—can I like—”

“Mm, it’s always crowded here. I’ll grab a drink for you—” A guy steps up next to Quentin—he’s approximately seven feet tall and wearing a t-shirt tighter than James’ and bright white shorts—like—hot pants? His legs are a fucking crime, and his face is an even worse crime, and obviously, he gets the bartender’s attention right away. 

“Uh. I need a beer? I don’t know—what kind,” Quentin starts. “It’s for my—” What the fuck is James even? “—boyfriend? And I don’t know. I’ll literally drink whatever.” He hastily shoves twenty dollars into the guy’s broad hand. 

“Boyfriend? Too bad.” The guy tugs at Quentin’s bun, which makes Quentin—want to run face first into a wall—he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. Every hair on his body stands on end as the guy winks at him. He hands Quentin something pink and a clear cup of pale beer. “If you’d like an upgrade, find me later. I’m going to win. And I’ve got seats to the VIP lounge. The men’s lounge behind it is _always_ empty. But I’m sure we could… _fill it up_.”

Well, _fuck_. 

“Oh,” Quentin says, pulse pounding. “Uh. Thanks—but—”

The guy winks at Quentin and saunters up to the stage, taking a spot a few guys away from James. The way the shorts cling to the tall guy’s ass, the outline of his cock—it’s insane. It should be _illegal_. And certainly prohibited as far as the contest is concerned. Quentin panics, looking back to James, who smiles broadly at him, apparently enjoying his first foray into gay wet t-shirt contests—which, when Quentin had googled it before they left to find out the logistics of such an event—had only yielded porn.

Quentin kind of gets that now. This is, like, fully a set up for the sort of pornography that lives rent free in Quentin’s mind. A stage full of guys in tight shirts about to get wet—yeah that checks a whole bunch of boxes. He’ll be committing as much of this as possible to memory and—total bonus—he’ll have James to fuck him senseless when he gets home. God, now he can’t get the image of that other guy out of his head, either. 

When he goes up to the stage to hand James his drink, James actually leans down and kisses him, which sends another wild thrill through him. James drinks his beer and chats with the other contestants—but not the guy Quentin talked to. That guy with the very obviously huge dick is drinking an actual martini and flirting with a few of the other guys. Quentin’s eyes keep getting drawn his way as he sips his drink—which the guy had told him was a ‘love potion.’ It tastes more like _lust_ , he thinks—bright and sharp and a little _dangerous_. 

He’s done with most of it by the time the contest starts. There are a few bar employees wearing nothing but tiny shorts—no t-shirts, he guesses, to like, delineate the employees from the contestants. The music is turned down for a moment to announce the rules—which boil down to how loud the group cheers for any given contestant. It seems like a faulty, easily rigged system. Quentin would definitely have electronic voting set up. It would be pretty easy with an app you could download before coming into the club. He thinks about suggesting it when—

The music starts up, and all the contestants strut around the stage, showing off their biceps and their abs at the encouragement of the emcee. James absolutely has the best body of anyone up there; Quentin’s not biased. But that other guy is—he’s magnetic. And taller than all the other contestants. When he smiles and preens for the audience, Quentin’s heart stops just a little, and the noise of the room stills around him—like this is a movie of his life and he’s somehow watching it unfold, plot point by plot point.

“And now,” the emcee says, voice reverberating over the crowd, “we’ll begin our contest and quench your unbearable thirst.” The audience cheers. “At the end of round one, we’ll have our top ten, then our top three, and finally—our winner.”

Quentin’s brain glosses over a lot of what’s being said because there are pitchers of water being lined up on stage, and the emcee has the guys turning around to show off their asses, one by one. And—in addition to James having a completely impeccable ass, the tall guy—really _also_ does. Quentin’s only human, so obviously he notices. It would be impossible for him _not_ to notice. 

He keeps drawing his eyes back to James, though, because James is so fucking good to look at. Before the contest starts, Quentin manages to grab another pink cocktail, which has way too much peach schnapps in it but—it’s definitely his speed right now. He’s about to watch James, who he’d just referred to has his _boyfriend_ , get drenched along with a bunch of other hot guys, and then he’s—well, he’s definitely getting James’ dick in him at some point tonight. Because Julia, thank fuck, isn’t home. 

Fuck. Quentin is feeling faint, torn between his mortification at wearing tiny shorts over his briefs—he’d refused the cock sock that came attached to the shorts—and his overwhelming _thirst_ over James entering a wet t-shirt contest. He snatches a seat at the end of the bar with a clear view of the stage and watches as the emcee recites the nonsensical rules again and has the guys walk around the stage once more. 

“Remember—the contest is judged purely on how hot these pretty boys look in their dripping wet t-shirts. Dicks in wet shorts should _not_ be factored in as a part of the judging process.” 

The contest is set to thrumming electronic music that rattles in Quentin’s bones as he sips his drink, and his heart seems to pound in his ears louder than the bass line as he watches the first two contestants doused with water, the thin white fabric of their shirts clinging to their abs. Neither of them is nearly as good looking as James, and Quentin mentally eliminates them. 

Tall Hottie, however, is most definitely on Quentin’s radar. He’s not buff like James—and the crowd is loving the buff guys as they walk the stage. But this guy is—he’s all charisma and elegance and charm. His apple-cheeked, radiant smile, the sheer length of him, the stupid shorts he’s wearing, the ridiculously long legs that—yeah, are maybe a little skinnny, but it’s working for him. Quentin keeps his focus on James because he’s already sorta fucked up over James, and they came here together, but when the other guy grins to the audience, blood rushes in his ears. 

One by one, the shirtless employees begin drenching the rest of the contestants with their pitchers of water. James looks supernova hot as water splashes over his head and down the front of his tight shirt, rivulets dripping over his cut jaw, the wet fabric sticking to his pecs and his abs, his nipples dark beneath it. He rubs a hand over the flat of his belly and lifts his shirt to give the audience a show. The water drips from the shorts he’s wearing, too, and Quentin can see the vague outline of his cock. A low hum of arousal pools inside him, his own cock pulsing with the thought of James’ mouth and hands and his gorgeous dick. The crowd is cheering for James, and it’s clear he’ll move to the next round.

The Tall Hottie actually has to bend down to receive his ablutions, requiring two pitchers as the first runs mostly over his back. It’s all very clumsy and inelegant, and the guy is clearly annoyed. But when he stands, Quentin’s attention snaps, unbidden, to the situation with the nearly sheer white shorts and the magnitude of this particular contestant’s dick, which is _distinctly_ visible. It’s fucking huge. And the guy just smirks, doing a twirl.

The emcee again reminds the audience that the wet t-shirt contest should only be judged on shirts, rather than the content of the contestants’ _packages_. Quentin snorts. Like the audience is going to listen to that.

Unsurprisingly, James and the tall guy are two of the final three—and, unfair as it is, Tall Hottie is crowned king of the wet t-shirt gays, even though it’s deeply apparent that he won because of his translucent fucking shorts and the length and girth of his ginormous dick. 

Well. Whatever. It’s fifty bucks, and James doesn’t need fifty bucks. He just needed an excuse to be gay for a night. Quentin makes a note to himself to tell him he can be gay in public whenever he wants, and he can surely take Quentin with him. Quentin will even go to a bar if there’s this level of entertainment, combined with the steady flow of alcohol in his pink drinks.

James, it turns out, will be awarded a twenty-five dollar gift card to Amazon. Which. That’s some cheap-ass shit. But it’s not nothing. His buffness has been acknowledged, and Quentin musters up the mental energy to dote on James in this, his hour of misfortune. He can do this, be empathetic or whatever, especially since the winner is a cheater—albeit a cheater with a huge fucking dick.

Quentin will have the image of that guy's dick clinging to his tight white shorts for the actual rest of his life. But now, James is headed his way, a little pout on his face. He comes up to Quentin and takes him in his arms, pressing him against his very wet chest. James kisses him and lowers a palm to grab his ass. Yeah, that’s good shit. Quentin can roll with being a supportive boyfriend-type if it means that James is tongue-fucking his mouth in the middle of a sea of hot men. Like Quentin is worth the attention. He’s never felt that before, he thinks, as James kisses him.

“The contest was rigged,” he murmurs against Quentin’s lips.

“Shorts shouldn’t count. Honestly, your shirt looked at least twice as good as that guy’s.” Quentin isn’t sure if that’s actually true. James is more… _built_. An easy win. The dark horse candidate with the giant cock had a wholly different appeal. Both appealing. Just—different.

Heat pulses through him, his eyes drawn over James’ body. The wet fabric clings to his abs, the swell of his chest. And he _knows_ James’ dick is in a cock sock beneath those tiny shorts. Holy _fuck_. He’s dizzy, mouth dry. Head swimming. It might be the booze or the men in dripping wet t-shirts or the whole _feeling_ of the place, of being out with James.

“Yeah, kind of a bummer,” James says, downing the last of his beer. 

“There’s—uh—I could cheer you up, I think.”

“Oh, well, _yeah_.” He leans down and brushes Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “I fully intend to fuck you when we get home. But we should stay out—”

“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking about going home.” Quentin pushes up and kisses him, his hand sliding down James’ body to the length of his cock in his athletic hot pants. He can feel James’ cock jerk slightly, thickening up even as Quentin holds him. 

“Oh, fuck. What were you thinking?”

“I could blow you,” Quentin mumbles, blood thumping in his ears, dick twitching in the fucking goddamn shorts, “in the restroom behind the VIP section. A guy told me about it. S’always empty.”

“Was there a guy trying to pick you up? I’ll beat his ass,” James mumbles, kissing him again.

“Maybe,” Quentin says. “But I was waiting for you.”

“You’re such a surprise, Coldwater,” James says, grabbing Quentin’s ass and squeezing hard. 

Quentin yelps and giggles helplessly against James’ chest. “Hope that’s good.”

“It’s real good.” James puts his hands to Quentin’s waist, which makes him feel small. A little shockwave hits his dick. He wants the thick stretch of James’ cock in his mouth, the sharp taste of his come, the noises he makes when he’s close, the way he buries his hands in Quentin’s hair. Yeah, that’s what he wants. He can give that to James.

Quentin leans up to press his lips to James’ ear. “If you come now, you think you still fuck me later?”

“I’m sure as fuck gonna try. If I don’t manage it, I’ll fuck you in the morning. I could finger you again tonight. I got plenty of energy to make you come again. And again.”

“It’s a date,” Quentin says. 

James kisses him and grips his ass, kneading into it with his fingers. “I just can’t say no to you,” James says. His voice is so hot and soft that Quentin nearly _melts_ right there. He could just rub up against James like this and probably come in his dumb shorts. But no. They’ve got a mission. And besides, that’s moderately to majorly inappropriate, even in the middle of a club full of wet men.

James lets Quentin tug him along to the back of the club where they’re most definitely not supposed to be. It’s just beyond the VIP lounge, where that tall guy is sitting with a congregation of wet-shirted men, a small, hot woman perched next to him, laughing with one of the guys. Another fantasy for another time, Quentin reminds himself. He’s gotta take care of his not-boyfriend using the bathroom he’s not supposed to be in. That’s the current goal. He squeezes Jame’s hand and pulls him into the men’s lounge, latching the door behind them.

It is clean and bright, two stalls across from the mirror, which—gives Quentin an idea. “C’mon, get over here,” Quentin says, tugging on James’ hand, “and stand, like, right here.”

“That’s right in front of the mirror,” he says, kissing Quentin’s ear, his jaw, over his neck. He lifts Quentin’s shirt, thumbing at his nipples. Sharp ripples of pleasure mix up with the pleasure of breaking the VIP rules, which don’t seem to be very hard rules, anyway. Another thread of something runs through Quentin—the thought that the other guy, the tall one with the huge cock, had offered to take him back here. That tonight, for whatever reason, two guys had wanted him. And he gets to have this one.

Quentin sinks to the floor, knees on the cold tile. He looks up at James. “I figured you could watch while I suck your dick.”

“Oh, fuck—” James lets out a strangled sound as Quentin snakes his hand up James’ muscled thigh, slipping his fingers beneath the shorts, and takes his soft cock in hand. Still wrapped in the silky material, it feels still familiar, but a little strange—good strange, Quentin thinks. He runs his hand up to the thick base, brushes his fingers over the head, a tiny bit of wetness where the fabric sits over his tip. “God, Q. Oh, fuck that feels so good—you’re so—oh—so fucking sexy.”

Quentin hikes one side of the shorts up and nuzzles his face against James’ dick, his tongue darting out to sweep over the tip, licking over the fabric and getting it wetter and wetter. When he gets it in his mouth, he can taste the salty hint of precome, can smell the faint musk of James’ skin. James cries out as Quentin works it in deeper, still sucking against the fabric. Moaning against his dick, Quentin’s fingers dig into James’ thighs so that he’s working James’ dick with his tongue and lips alone.

It’s not elegant, sucking dick like this, the fabric sticking to his tongue, but James’ legs are shaking, his hand reaching out to grab the door frame of the stall. He keeps muttering about how good it feels, how hot Quentin’s mouth is, fingers tangling in Quentin’s hair and _pulling_. “I want your—I want your mouth on my skin,” James chokes out, fumbling with the waistband of his shorts.

“Yeah, wanna taste you,” Quentin says, pressing a kiss to his cock and pulling the shorts down, pooling over James’ wet flip flops. James’ dick springs free almost comically, bobbing next to Quentin’s mouth. He goes for it tongue-first, craving the stretch and weight as he sucks at the head, licking along his slit and taking in his taste, unfettered now, alkaline and sharp against his tongue. He sweeps his tongue over the head, then licks down to the base and lower—to his balls which are heavy and pulled tight to James’ body. James grunts, tugging at Quentin’s hair again, and his bun coming loose. 

“You’re such a little tease, Coldwater.” James is panting, pulling hard on his hair now, a jolt of heady arousal rushing through Quentin’s body, his own cock plumping up in his shorts. He presses the heel of his palm against his dick as James parts Quentin’s lips and shoves his cock inside, the hot skin sliding against Quentin’s tongue. Quentin’s dick is starting to ache in his briefs, and he slips his hand inside his shorts, just to hold it and give it a little squeeze as James presses forward, rubbing the head of his dick against Quentin’s soft palate.

Quentin closes his eyes, settling into the zen that is sucking James’ thick cock. He likes the slight pain in his lips as it stretches his lips, the slip of petal soft, heated skin against his tongue, the music of James’ sighs and moans as he shakes and comes apart, getting louder, shameless, as Quentin takes him to the back of his throat. Spit runs over his chin, James’ dick all wet and messy, saltiness bursting over the back of Quentin’s tongue, drops of precome that tell Quentin he’s getting James close to the edge, that he’s doing his job, finishing his _quest_. 

“You—you wanna swallow my come, hm?” James’ voice is trembling, a little uncertain. Like he’s not sure if what he’s saying is actually sexy. And, spoiler alert, it most definitely fucking is. Quentin’s own cock is iron hard, and he feels wetness at the head as he plays with it, his hand moving light and easy, not enough to do anything but put him on edge. “That’s what you like?”

Quentin grunts, nodding against James’ cock. He takes his cock as deep as he can, and he idly wishes there were a spell so he could just get rid of his gag reflex for a while, take James all the way to the back of his throat and swallow his hot come.

“I’m getting close and I wanna—” James shudders, his body quaking as he tries to hold himself still, keeping himself, Quentin thinks, from launching into the back of his throat and choking Quentin. “—I wanna jerk off and come on your tongue, so you can taste it.”

Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head. This was his number one James’ fantasy for a number of months his sophomore year in high school when he truly discovered the joys of internet porn and stumbled upon a particular gay scene that had very much informed the shape of his sexuality. He takes James deep again and grunts, working the head of his cock against the roof of his mouth, pulling off panting only when James grips his hair and says, “C’mon, give me that tongue.”

Looking up at James, he opens his mouth, tongue out, thinking of, strangely, James and that other guy at the same time, a thrill rolling through him at the thought of sucking them both off and kneeling like this while they both cover his face and chest in come. 

The slick sound of James jerking off reverberates in the bathroom; it doesn’t take long, a few hard strokes, and he shouts, shooting white, musky heat over Quentin’s lips and tongue as Quentin frantically works his own dick, ascending to a different plane of existence as James plunges his still pulsing dick between Quentin’s wet lips, nudging against the very back of his throat and coating the inside of his mouth with the heady taste of his pleasure. Quentin is close, heat pounding through his core as James pulls his softening cock from between his lips. 

“Come on up here, Q. C’mon.”

Quentin feels James pulling him up, followed by the hot press of James’ mouth against his as he licks the own flavor of his come off of Quentin’s lips, sucking on his tongue. Broad hands are pushing his own shorts down, James moving Quentin so he’s back to chest, facing the mirror in the bathroom now. 

“You should open your eyes. You look so hot. You should see it.” 

Hesitant, Quentin opens his eyes and watches as James spits in his hand and lowers his hand to grip Quentin’s dick, jerking him off hard and fast in that efficient way of his. It’s almost too much, seeing his own face as James draws him to the precipice, his hips and ass tensing as pressure builds, his cock encased in James’ big, wet hand. The friction and slide over his hard dick are heaven, everything he ever wanted, feeling safe and held and cared for as the lightning sharp sensation crackles through his body. He watches himself as he hits the tipping point, his hips bucking into James hand, mouth open as he cock pulses, orgasm ripping through him as he spills and spills over James’ fingers. Little shockwaves roll through him as James squeezes his dick and works him through it, heat and light and pleasure settling in his bones. 

James kisses his neck. “Well. I’m definitely the winner here tonight.”

“You’re corny as fuck,” Quentin says, stumbling through a vague sort of clean up that involves a lot of wadded up toilet paper and scratchy paper towels and—yeah they probably look like they were just fucking in the bathroom. 

“The real prize—”

“ _Stop_.”

“—is what we shared in this men’s lounge.”

Quentin is nearly doubled over laughing, pulling his shorts back on when there’s a soft knock at the bathroom door, and they hear a man’s voice on the other side. “We’re going to ask that if you’re not VIP guests, you leave the men’s lounge. Okay? Go back to the front.” 

Chagrined, they exit the bathroom to see a scowling employee. “Sorry man,” James says. The guy just rolls his eyes and gestures toward the front of the bar. They walk back past the roped off lounge, where the Tall Hottie is no longer sitting. Well—that’s _fine_. Quentin got what he came for.

“They’ve got shirts for the contest participants,” James says. He hands Quentin a twenty. “Will you grab us some more drinks?”

Quentin nods. “Don’t forget your twenty dollar gift card.”

“Twenty- _five_ ,” James says. “That’s how much my hot body is worth.”

“At _least_ ,” Quentin says. He winds his way up to the bar, James walking off behind him and laughing. He feels like he’s floating when he puts in another drink order, and he barely notices a figure sidling up beside him. 

“Hey there, trouble,” the guy says. His voice is a smidge slurred, but his eyes—green with flecks of copper and gold—are laser sharp, the full force of his gaze on Quentin. Quentin balks—it’s the same guy from earlier, but his hair is _dry_ , and his shirt is dry—and he’s slipped on slim black pants over the obscene white shorts, preventing Quentin, unfortunately, from seeing the outline of his dick.

“Uh, hi. I’m just—drinks. For me and my boyfriend.” Quentin swallows and watches Tall Hottie’s eyes slip down to his mouth.

“Mm hmm.” He looks Quentin over, eyes resting for a moment on Quentin’s ridiculous shorts. “I’ve still got an open spot in the VIP lounge. Saw you were already done with your boyfriend. Tried to stop the dick police from coming to get you, but I can only do so much.” The guy flexes his hands and winks at Quentin, teetering a little. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Oh, um. We talked earlier.” A little thrum of want stirs deep in Quentin, a bloom rising in him from a place he doesn’t think James has ever quite managed to reach. The bartender places drinks in front of Quentin and takes his twenty without giving change. “I’ve gotta—I’ve gotta get—back. To him. My boyfriend.”

“Too bad. You’d fit nicely right on my lap.” Without warning the guy leans forward and brushes his thumb against Quentin’s lower lip, sending a shiver over the back of his neck. All his hair stands on end. “Pretty lips. Bet you know what to do with them, don’t you? They’re all _pink_.”

“Um—” 

“Okay, Casanova. Time to get the fuck back to the cottage. That temporary portal is gonna vanish and we’ll be standing here with our dicks in our hands.” The words come from the small woman who was with him before.

“But, look—Bambi, I found my puppy again. Can we take him home?” Tall Hottie puts a broad hand on Quentin’s shoulder, sending a hard jolt straight to his still sensitive dick. Quentin has the nearly uncontrollable urge to suck this guy’s cock, and his throat is still raw from taking James so deep. Jesus _Christ_. What a fucking night.

The woman gives him a derisive glance. “God, he’s not that cute. C’mon. We gotta _go_. There are a dozen like him waiting back home.”

“He’s got the nicest mouth. Look at him.” The guy’s eyes are still on him, even though his friend is trying to push him to the door. 

“Portal’s gonna fucking close. And we don’t know how to get the fuck back, okay? Don’t forgo your promising fucking future for a nerd.”

Quentin blinks. “You said—a _portal_?”

“Oh,” the woman says, registering Quentin’s existence as she glances at him, her eyes—doe brown and huge—narrowing as she peers at him. More hawk than doe, he thinks. “It’s just an expression. We’re from out of town. Bye, kid. See you never. Sorry about taking this pretty dick away.”

With that, she’s pushing her companion toward the front of the bar. He stumbles and turns around to give Quentin a little wave, blowing him a kiss. “He’s so precious,” Quentin hears him say. “Like a little pet I could keep in my pocket. A pocket pet.”

“You won’t remember him tomorrow,” the woman says. They leave the bar behind, and they walk off into the night, away from the bar. A weird chill hits him, like he’s seen them somewhere before. Fuck it. Brains are weird. 

“Hey,” James says, walking up to Quentin to display his gift card. “It’s _thirty_ bucks. We should order a new juicer.”

“Aren’t those like two-hundred bucks?” Quentin hands him his beer. “And didn’t you just get a new one?”

“Yeah. Just an excuse to get another one, I guess. A spare juicer.”

Quentin laughs. “You earned it. Spend it how you like.”

James stuffs the card in his pocket and leans in for a kiss, lips brushing against Quentin’s. This won’t last, he knows, but it’s nice right now, to enjoy James like this. God knows it won’t last. Nothing ever does in Quentin’s life. But he’s supposed to be working on gratitude or whatever, enjoying the moment. So, for now, he does.


End file.
